“All right, Hugh,” agreed Blake, instantly. “That’s about as good a programme as we could arrange. Still, we have all admitted that it looks promising that Felix went to the trouble of writing a letter to Uncle Reuben, Something must have been worrying him—we’ve heard from one of his comrades here that he hasn’t been himself ever since the battery left Oakvale. It was an uneasy conscience, I’m sure; I know Felix pretty well, and I’m certain that if he began to believe he had acted in a mean way he would get no peace of mind until he had done all in his power to rectify his error.”
Apparently Blake was in a decidedly “chipper” frame of mind since this last odd happening. He seemed to feel that things were finally working out to serve their ends, and that success must soon perch on their banner.
“Well,” remarked the philosophical Bud, “nothing like having two strings to your bow, I’ve always believed. Never put all your eggs in one basket. Now, in case our little excursion along the road to the railway station turns out a complete failure, you see we’ve always got this letter to turn to.”
“And, of course,” added Blake, “when the time limit has expired those men won’t bother trying to hold poor Felix any longer. They’ll believe their game is won, and turn him loose. Now, just ten minutes have dragged by since Captain Barclay left us, and he said half an hour, didn’t he?”
All this was like so much Greek to young Shafter, and, seeing the look of bewilderment on his face, Hugh took pity on him. Besides, since the story was getting to be in general circulation through devious channels, one guardsman taken into their confidence would not matter. Then, again, the telling might serve to kill a little of the time that promised to hang so heavily on their hands.
Accordingly he started in to entertain Burch Shafter with a remarkable story that held his attention closely all the way through. Hugh was not the one to waste words, and so he kept “hewing close to the line” until he had arrived at the point where they were waiting for Captain Barclay to return with permission from Headquarters to take a detail of armed men and ascertain who the inmates of that old house on the roadside were; likewise, whether Private Gregory were detained there against his will.
“All I can say,” remarked the deeply interested listener, after the stirring account of their adventures on the road had been brought to a finish, “is that it beats the Dutch how you scouts do have thrilling happenings come your way. Why, there’s a list as long as my arm of fine things you fellows have done. Here you promise to add another laurel to the wreath you’ve won. I take off my hat to Hugh Hardin and the boys of Oakvale Troop. They are trump cards, every one of them, and that’s the truth.”
He suddenly remembered he was a soldier, and that his time could not be called his own; so, saying a hasty good-bye, Burch Shafter strode away. His coming, and what he had brought with him, had given them all new reasons for gratitude, and the rainbow of promise was once more shining brilliantly in the heavens above.
The time dragged horribly after that, although they talked of many things, so that Blake might not give way to impatience. There was a never-ending source of delight in just glancing around them at all the queer sights by which they found themselves surrounded, with veterans and rookies carrying on a multitude of camp duties. Had it been in the daytime instead of about nine o’clock at night, doubtless the visitors would have witnessed a multitude of intensely interesting things, such as are born of camp life, from comrades being shaved by fresh barbers, to others engaged in taking their first lesson in the art of washing their own clothes under very primitive conditions.
Finally, when Blake had sighed for about the hundredth time, and Bud himself took to yawning because of the inaction, Hugh announced that he believed he had seen an officer hurrying in their direction.